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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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SONGS     OF    THE 
PRAIRIE 


BY 
ROBERT  J.  C.  STEAD 

Author  of  "PRAIRIE  BORN." 


THE  PLATT  &  PECK  CO. 


Copyright  1012,  By 
The  Platt  &  Peck  Co. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The    Prairie i 

The    Gramophone 4 

The    Plow 8 

The    Mothering 12 

Hustliii'    in    My    Jeans I5 

The    Homesteader 20 

Vain    Suitors 24 

God's    Signalman 26 

Going    Home 32 

Just  Be  Glad 38 

The    Canadian    Rockies 40 

A    Prairie    Heroine 42 

The    Seer 5i 

The   Son   of   Marquis    Noddle S6 

The    Prodigals 62 

The    Squad    of    One 64 

Alkali    Hall 70 

Prairie    Born 7o 

"A    Colonial" ^^ 

Little   Tim   Trotter ^4 

62G192 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The    Vortex ^ 

The    Old   Guard 9i 

Kid    McCann 93 

Who    Owns   the   Land? 99 

A    Race   for    Life 103 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  PRAIRIE 

The  City  ?    Oh,  yes,  the  City 

Is  a  good  enough  place  for  a  while, 
It  fawns  on  the  clever  and  witty, 

And  welcomes  the  rich  with  a  smile; 
It  lavishes  money  as  water, 

It  boasts  of  its  palace  and  hall, 
But  the  City  is  only  the  daughter — 

The  Prairie  is  mother  of  all ! 

The  City  is  all  artificial, 

Its  life  is  a  fashion-made  fraud, 
Its  wisdom,  though  learned  and  judicial, 

Is  far  from  the  wisdom  of  God; 
Its  hope  is  the  hope  of  ambition. 

Its  lust  is  the  lust  to  acquire, 
And  the  larger  it  grows,  its  condition 

Sinks  lower  in  pestilent  mire. 

The  City  is  cramped  and  congested. 
The  haunt  and  the  covert  of  crime; 

The  Prairie  is  broad,  unmolested, 
It  points  to  the  high  and  sublime; 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Where  only  the  sky  is  above  you 

And  only  the  distance  in  view, 
With  no  one  to  jostle  or  shove  you — 

It's  there  a  man  learns  to  be  true! 

Where  the  breeze  whispers  over  the  willows 

Or  sighs  in  the  dew  laden  grass, 
And  the  rain  clouds,  like  big,  stormy  billows, 

Besprinkle  the  land  as  they  pass; 
V/ith  the  smudge-fire  alight  in  the  distance, 

The  wild  duck  alert  on  the  stream. 
Where  life  is  a  psalm  of  existence 

And  opulence  only  a  dream. 

Where  wide  as  the  plan  of  creation 

The  Prairies  stretch  ever  away, 
And  beckon  a  broad  invitation 

To  fly  to  their  bosom,  and  stay  ; 
The  prairie  fire  smell  in  the  gloaming — 

The  water-wet  wind  in  the  spring — 
An  empire  untrod  for  the  roaming — 

Ah,  this  is  a  life  for  a  king! 

WTien  peaceful  and  pure  as  a  river 
They  lie  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

You  know  that  the  Infinite  Giver 
Is   stringing   your   spirit   a-tune; 

2 


Sonsrs  of  the  Prairie 


That  Hfe  is  not  told  in  the  telling, 
That  death  does  not  whisper  adieu, 

And  deep  in  your  bosom  up-welling, 
You  know  that  the  Promise  is  true ! 

To  those  who  have  seen  it  and  smelt  it, 

To  those  who  have  loved  it  alone 
To  those  who  have  known  it  and  felt  it — 

The  Prairie  is  ever  their  own ; 
And  far  though  they  wander,  unwary, 

Far,  far  from  the  breath  of  the  plain, 
A  thought  of  the  wind  on  the  Prairie 

Will  set  their  blood  rushing  again. 

Then  you  to  the  City  who  want  it, 

Go,  grovel  its  gain-glutted  streets, 
Be  one  of  the  ciphers  that  haunt  it, 

Or  sit  in  its  opulent  seats ; 
But  for  me,  where  the  Prairies  are  reaching 

As  far  as  the  vision  can  scan — 
Ah,  that  is  the  prayer  and  the  preaching 

That  goes  to  the  heart  of  a  man! 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  GRAMOPHONE 

Where  the  lonely  settler's  shanty  dots  the  plain, 
And  he  sighs    for   friends  and  comradeship  in 
vain, 

Through  the  silences  intense 
Comes  a  sound  of  eloquence 
Shrilling  forth  in  steely,  brazen,  waxen  strain — 
The    deep,    resonant   voice   of   Gladstone 
calling  from  the  tomb, 
Or    Ingersoll's    deliverance   before   his 
brother's  bier; 
Then  a  saucy  someone  singing,  "When  the 
daisies  are  in  bloom," 
And  the  fife  and  drummers  rendering 
'The  British  Grenadier." 

Back  as  far  into  the  hills  as  they  could  get, 
They've  a  roof  that  turns  the  winter  and  the  wet, 

They  are   grizzled  but  they're  gay, 

They've  a  daily  matinee. 
They  are  happy  though  they're  head  and  ears 
in  debt — 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


"I  wish  I  had  my  old  girl  back  again," 
"If  the  wind  had  only  blown  the  other 
way," 
Uncertain  voices  join  an  old  refrain 
And  repeat  the  same  performance  every 
day. 

There's  a   Scotchman   holding   down  a  mining 

claim 
All  unknown  to  Fortune,  Influence  or  Fame, 
But  a  few  of  Harry's  songs 
Are  a  solace  for  his  wrongs 
And  he  sings  them  ev'ry  evening  in  his  "hame" — 
"I'm  courtin'  Bonnie  Leezy  Lindsay  noo," 
"When   I  get  back  again" — you  know 
the  lilt— 
"We    parted   on   the    shore,"    "I'm    fou', 
I'm  fou'," 
"And  that's  the  reason  noo  I  wear  the 
kilt." 

There's  a  son  of  Erin  in  Saskatchewan, 

He's  at  work  a  half  an  hour  before  the  dawn. 

But  before  he  goes  to  bunk 

He  makes  a  table  of  his  trunk 
And  he  sets  his  clock-work  concert  thereupon — 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


"The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls," 

"St.  Patrick's  day  in  the  mornin'," 
"The  last  rose  of   summer,"  and  Fancy 
recalls 
A  glimpse  of  his  "Kathleen  Mavour- 
neen." 

There's  an  Englishman  who's  living  in  a  shack, 
He's  a  victim  of  the  gramophone  attack, 
With  a  half-a-dozen  kids 
(He  has  half  that  many  "quids") 
But  he  dances  with  the  youngest  on  his  back — 

Though  he's  living  in  the  country  of  the 
Cree 
The  horn  that  hangs  a  fathom  from  his 
head 
Stretches  out  a  thousand  leagues  across 
the  sea 
And   sings   in   dear  old   London   town 
instead. 

They  are  far  from  auditorium  or  hall. 

But  their  minds  arc  still  atune  to  Music's  call. 

They  can  hear  Caruso  sing, 

Or  the  bells  of  Shandon  ring. 
As  they  smoke  and  count  the  cracks  along  the 
wall. 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


I'm  a  miracle  of  eloquence  imprisoned  in  the  wax, 

I'm  a  mental  inspiration  operated  by  a  spring, 

I'm  a  nightly  consolation  from  Yukon  to  Halifax, 

And  the  ends  of   all  creation  sit  and  listen 

zvhile  I  sing: 

I'm  the  Voice  of  all  that  man  has  sought 

and  gained: 
I'm    the   throb   of   eifry   heart  that  ever 
pained : 

I'm  the  Genesis  of  Fate, 
I'm  the  Soul  of  Love  and  Hate, 
I'm  the  humanly  impossible  attained! 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  PLOW 

What   power    is   this   that    stands   behind   th 

steel ? — 
A  homely   implement   of   blade   and   wheel — 
Neglected  by  the  margin  of  the  way, 
And  flashing  back  the  blaze  of  dying  day; 
Or  dragging  slow  across  the  yellow  field 
In  silent  prophecy  of  lavish  yield, 
It  marks  the  pace  of  innocence  and  toil, 
And  taps  the  boundless  treasure  of  the  soil. 

Before  you  came  the  red  man   rode  the  plair 
Untitled  lord  of  Nature's  great  domain; 
The  shaggy  herds,  knee  deep  in  mellow  gras: 
The  lazy  summer  hours  were  wont  to  pass; 
The  wild  goose  nested  by  the  water  side ; 
The  red  deer  roamed  upon  the  prairie  wide; 
The  black  bear  trod  the  woods  in  solemn  migh' 
The  lynx  stole  through  the  bushes  in  the  nigh- 
No  sound  of  toil  was  heard  in  all  the  land ; 
No  joyous  laugh  of  voire  or   sharp  command 

8 


,(. 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


No  cloud  of  smoke   from  iron   funnels  thrown 
Was  through  the  autumn  hazes  gently  blown ; 
No  edge  of  steel  tore  up  the  virgin  sod; 
No  church  its  shining  finger  turned  to  God ; 
No  tradesman  labored  over  bench  and  tool; 
No  children  chattered  on  their  way   to  school. 

But  all  the  land  lay  desolate  and  bare, 
Its  wealth  of  plain  its  forest  riches  rare 
Unguessed  by  those  who   saw  it  through  their 

tears, 
And   Nature — miser  of  a  thousand  years — 
Was  adding  still  to  her  immense  reserve 
That   shall    supply   the   world   with  brawn   and 

nerve : 
But  all  lay  silent,  useless,  and  unused, 
And  useless  'twas  because  it  was  unused. 

You  came.     Straightway  the  silent  plain 

Grew  mellow   with  the  glow  of  golden  grain ; 

The  axes  in  the  solitary  wood 

Rang  out  where  stately  oak  and  maple  stood ; 

The  land  became  alive  with  busy  din, 

And  as  the  many  settled,  more  came  in; 

The  world  looked  on  in  wonder  and  dismay — 

The  building  of  a  nation  in  a  day! 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


By  lake  and  river,  rock  and  barren  waste, 
A  peaceful  army  toiled  in  eager  haste; 
Ten  thousand  workers  sweating  in  the  sun 
Pressed  on  the  task  so  recently  begun; 
Their  outworks  every  day  were  forced  ahead — 
And  every  day  they  gave  their  toll  of  dead — 
Until  at  length  the  double  lines  of  steel 
Received  the  steaming  steed  and  whirling  wheel ! 

Where  yesterday  the  lazy  bi>on  lay 

A  city  glitters  in  the  sun  to-day ; 

His  paths  are  turned  to  streets  of  wood  and 

stone, 
And  thousands    tread   the   way   he   trod   alone; 
The  mighty  hum  of  industry  and  trade 
Fills  all  the  place  where  once  he  held  parade, 
And    far   away   the   unheard   river's  play 
Makes  joyous  night  still  brighter  than  the  day! 

Upon  the  plains  a  thousand  towns  arise, 
And  quickly  each  to  be  a  city  tries ; 
The  sound  of  trade  is  heard  on  every  hand 
And  sturdy  men  rise  to  possess  the  land ; 
Awhile  they  lingered,  thinking  it  a  dream. 
But  now  they  flow  in  a  resistless  stream 
That  seems  to  fill  the  prairie  far  and  near, 
Yet  in  its  vastness  soon  ihey  disappear. 

ID 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Where   once    the    silent    red    man    spurned    the 

ground 
A  land  of  peace  and  plenty  now  is  found, 
A  land  by  Nature  destined  to  be  great, 
Where  every  man  is  lord  of  his  estate; 
Where  men  may  dwell  together  in  accord, 
And  honest  toil  receive  its  due  reward  ; 
Where  loyal  friends  and  happy  homes  are  made, 
And  culture  follows  hard  the  feet  of  trade. 

This  you  have  made  it.     Is  it  vain  to  hope 

The  sons  of  such  a  land  will  climb  and  grope 

Along  the  undiscovered  ways  of  life, 

And  neither  seek  nor  be  found  shunning  strife, 

But  ever,  beckoned  by  a  high  ideal, 

Press  onward,  upward,  till  they  make  it  real  ; 

With  feet  sure  planted  on  their  native  sod. 

And  will  and  aspirations  linked  with  God? 


II 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  MOTHERING 

I  had  lain  untrod  for  a  million  years  from  the 
line  to  the  Arctic  sea; 

I  had  dreamed  strange  dreams  of  the  vast  un- 
known, 

Of  the  lisping  wind  and  the  dancing  zone 

Where  the  Northland  fairies'  feet  had  flown, 
And  it  all  seemed  good  to  me. 

At  the  close  of  a  thousand  eons  of  sleep  came 

a  pang  that  was  strange  to  me ; 
The  pang  of  a  new  life  in  my  breast, 
The  swell  of  a  vast  and  a  vague  unrest. 
And  it  thrilled  my  soul  from  East  to  West 
As  it  fluttered  to  be  free. 

But  I  steeled  my  heart  to  the  biped  thing;  of 

vast  presumption  he : 
He  would  lure  my  lonely  thoughts   away, 
He  would  sj>ort  himself  on  the  sacred  clay 
Where  the  dust  of  the  prehistoric  lay; 
But  he  scorned  the  soul  of  me. 

12 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


So  I  stretched  my  plains  for  a  thousand  leagues 

from  the  mountains   to  the  sea ; 
But  he  rolled  them  back  with  a  steel-laid  line, 
And  he  crumbled  space  by  man's  design 
And  he  filled  his  life  with  the  breath  of  mine; 
But  his  love  he  gave  not  me. 

Then  I  called  him  foes  from  the  farthest  north 

and  the  snowflake  fluttered  free; 
But  he  took  him  trees  I  had  given  birth. 
And  he  delved  him  coal  from  my  bowels  of  earth, 
And  he  laughed  at  me  as  he  sat  in  mirth; 
But  he  cursed  the  cold  of  me. 

Then  I  cut  him  oflf  from  his  fellow-men  that  his 

thought  might  turn  to  me; 
But  he  strung  him  a  line  of  copper  thread, 
And  his  fire-shod  words  swung  overhead. 
By  the  fiend  of  air  his  thought  was  spread 
O'er  hill,  and  plain,  and  lea. 

Then  I  gave  him  hopes  he  could  not  define  and 

fears  that  he  could  not  fliee ; 
And   he  heard   my  cry  in   the  long,   still  night, 
In  my  spirit-thrall  I  held  him  tight 
And  his   blind   soul-eyes   craved   for  the   light; 
But  the  light  he  could  not  see. 

13 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


So  I  held  my  peace  till  I  saw  him  sit  with  chil- 
dren at  his  knee ; 
And  I  sent  them  the  sun,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
And  the  ferny  slope  and  the  flowery  plain, 
And  the  wet  night-smell  of  the  growing  grain; 
And  their  love  they  gave  to  me. 

In  the  last  race-birth  of  the  sons  of  men  a  travail 

holdeth  me; 
But  out  of  the  night  of  pain  and  tears 
A  new  life  comes  with  the  rolling  years; 
And  I   fondle  the  child  of  my  hope  and  fears, 
And  it  seemeth  good  to  me. 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


HUSTLIN'   IN   MY   JEANS 

Ybs,  I'm  holdin'  down  the  homestead  here  an' 

roughin'  it  a  bit, 
It  seems  the  only  kin^  o'  Hfe  that  I  was  built 

to  fit, 
For  it's  thirty  years  last  summer  since  I  staked 

my  first  preserve, 
An'  I  reckon  on  the  whole  I've  prospered  more 

than  I  deserve; 
An'  my  friends  kep'  naggin'  at  me  for  to  quit 

this  toil  an'  strife 
An  to  settle  in  the  city  for  the  balance  of  my 

life, 
An'   I  ain't  compelled  to  labor — I've  cached  a 

wad  of  beans — 
But  I'm  happier  when  I'm  hustlin'  on  the  home- 
stead in  my  jeans. 

I've  tried  to  loaf  an'  like  it  an'  I've  tried  to  swell 

about 
Where  the  boozey  run  to  red-eye  an'  the  greedy 

run  to  gout, 

1-5 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


An'  I've  tried  to  wear  a  collar  an'  a  fancy  fly- 
net  vest, 

An'  I've  tried  to  think  it  pleasant  just  to  sit 
around  an'  rest ; 

An'  I've  mingled  with  the  nabobs  an'  hee-hawed 
with  other  guys 

That  were  just  as  sick  as  I  was  of  a  life  of  livin' 
lies ; 

I've  mingled  in  society  an'  peeked  behind  the 
scenes — 

An'  I'm  happier  when  I'm  hustlin'  on  the  home- 
stead in  my  jeans. 


Then  I  got  the  lust  for  roamin'  an  I  rummaged 
round  the  earth, 

An'  I  got  a  big  experience  an'  correspondin' 
girth, 

But  the  more  I  roved  an'  rambled  the  less  I  cared 
to  live, 

An'  I  only  kep'  on  goin'  cause  I'd  no  alternative ; 

I  learned  through  tips  an'  tickets»an'  the  jostle 
of  the  cars 

That  I  wouldn't  trade  a  homestead  for  a  conti- 
nent in  Mars; 

i6 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


An'   I   bid  good-bye   to  Fashion  an'   her  social 

kings  an'  queens, 
An'  I  filed  my  second  homestead  an'  I  bought 

a  pair  of  jeans. 

'Course  it's  sometimes  kind  o'  lonely  on  the 
prairie  here  alone, 

When  the  night-time  settles  round  you  an'  your 
thoughts  are  all  your  own, 

An'  old  faces  flit  before  you  like  a  flock  o'  homin' 
birds 

An'  your  heart  swells  with  emotion  that  no  man 
can  put  in  words, 

An'  you  ponder  on  the  Why-for,  the  Beginnin', 
an'  the  End ; 

An'  you  know  the  only  things  worth  while  are 
Family  an'  Friend — 

From  the  trifles  of  existence  your  better  judg- 
ment weans, 

An'  you  get  the  right  perspective  on  the  home- 
stead— in  your  jeans. 

There  are  days  the  sweat-drops  glisten  on  this 

sun-burned  hand  of  mine, 
There  are  nights  the  joints  go  creakin'  as  I  crawl 

to  bed,  at  nine, 

17 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  I  hear  the  horses'  stampin'  and  the  rap  of 
Collie's  tail 

An'  it  minds  me  of  the  Eighties  an'  the  Old  Com- 
mission Trail — 

Of  the  days  we  pledged  our  future  to  a  land  we 
hardly  knew, 

An'  the  men  whose  brave  beginnings  made  pros- 
perity for  you ; 

There  are  men  now  worth  their  millions  I  re- 
member in  their  teens, 

An'  they  made  their  start  by  hustlin'  on  the  home- 
stead in  their  jeans. 


There  are  times  when  most  folks  figure  that  their 

life  has  been  a  blank; 
You  may  be  a  homeless  hobo  or  director  of  a 

bank, 
But  the  thought  will  catch  you  nappin' — catch 

you  sometime  unawares — 
That  your  life  has  been  a  failure,  and  that  no 

one  really  cares ; 
That    the    world    will    roll   without   you    till    the 

Resurrection  morn, 
An'  that  no  one  would  have  missed  you  if  you 

never  had  been  born ; 

i8 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


An'  I  give  you  my  conclusion — all  that  livin' 
really  means 

Is  revealed  to  those  who  hustle  on  the  home- 
stead in  their  jeans. 

Some  day  I  reckon  I'll  cash  in  an'  file  another 
claim 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troublin'  an'  the 
good  get  in  the  game; 

Where  the  pews  are  not  allotted  by  the  fashion 
of  your  dress, 

An'  the  only  thing  that  figures  is  inherent  manli- 
ness— 

Give  me  no  silk-spangled  horses  an'  no  silver- 
plated  hearse, 

But  let  some  student  preacher  read  a  bit  of 
Scripture  verse, 

An'  find  a  sunny  hillside  where  the  water-willow 
screens, 

An'  plant  me  on  the  homestead  where  I  hustled — 
in  my  jeans. 


19 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  HOMESTEADER 

Far  away  from  the  din  of  the  city, 

I  dwell  on  the  prairie  alone, 
With  no  one  to  praise  or  to  pity, 

And  all  the  broad  earth  for  my  own; 
The  fields  to  allure  me  to  labor, 

The  shanty  to  shelter  my  sleep, 
A  league  and  a  half  to  a  neighbor — 

And  Collie  to  watch  if  I  weep. 

Yes,  this  is  my  place  of  probation, 

Though  woefully  windy  and  bare; 
I  am  lord  of  my  own  habitation, 

I  mock  at  the  meaning  of  care; 
For  here,  on  the  edge  of  creation. 

Lies,  far  as  the  vision  can  fling, 
A  kingdom  that's  fit  for  a  nation — 

A  kingdom — and  I  am  the  king! 

The  grasses  aglare  in  the  moring 
With  crystalline  radiance  shine  ; 

The  dew-drops  are  jewels  adorning. 
Are  jewels — and  the  jewels  are  mine; 

20 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  heat  of  the  sun  when  it  shineth, 
The  wet  of  the  wind  when  it  rains, 

Are  balm  to  the  heart  that  repineth — 
The  Medicine  Men  of  the  plains! 

I  follow  the  plow  in  the  breaking, 

I  tap  the  rich  treasures  of  Time — 
The  treasure  is  here  for  the  taking, 

And  taking  it  isn't  a  crime; 
I  ride  on  the  rack  or  the  reaper 

To  harvest  the  fruit  of  my  hand, 
And  daily  I  know  that  the  deeper 

I'm  rooting  my  soul  in  the  land. 

They  say  there  is  wealth  in  the  doing, 

That  royal  and  rich  are  the  gains, 
But  'tisn't  the  wealth  I  am  wooing 

So  much  as  the  life  of  the  plains; 
For  here  in  the  latter-day  morning, 

Where  Time  to  Eternity  clings. 
Midwife  to  a  breed  in  the  horning, 

I  behold  the  Beginnings  of  Things! 

When,  reckless  of  time  and  of  trouble, 
I  watch  till  the  water  fowl  comes, 

21 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Or,  picking  my  steps  in  the  stubble, 
I  steal  where  the  prairie  hen  drums; 

When  shooting  the  wolf  in  the  brushes, 
Or  spearing  the  pike  in  the  stream. 

Or  potting  the  crane  in  the  rushes — 
Ambition  seems  only  a  dream. 

When  darkness  envelops  creation, 

And  shadows  lie  deep  on  the  plain, 
I  sit  in  my  rude  habitation 

And  ponder  my  childhood  again; 
Then  voices  come  out  of  the  distance, 

Far  voices  from  over  the  sea, 
They  call  from  the  depths  of  existence — 

I  know  they  are  calling  to  me! 

The  voices  of  song  and  of  motion. 

The  voices  of  laughter  and  light. 
They're  calling  from  over  the  ocean — 

Oh,  God !  could  I  answer  to-night ! 
The  voices  of  friend  and  of  lover. 

The  voices  I  knew  in  the  past — 
I  turn  to  my  pallet  to  smother 

The  thoughts  that  have  found  me  at  last ! 


22 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Greater  than  the  measure  of  the  heroes  of  re- 
nown, 

He  is  building  for  the  future,  and  no  hand  can 
hold  him  down; 

Though  they  count  him  but  a  common  man,  he 
holds  the  Outer  Gate, 

And  posterity  will  own  him  as  the  father  of  the 
State. 


23 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


VAIN  SUITORS 

You  may  tell  in  fondest  phrases 
How  Venetian  glory  raises 

Sunlit  domes  and  basking  marbles  as  her 
streets  flow  to  the  sea ; 
Sing  of  Florence  or  Geneva 
Or  the  Bay  of  Naples ;  weave  a 
Web  of  sentiment — but  leave  a 

Little  sentiment  for  me. 

Where  the  warm  Atlantic  waters 

Lave  your  laughing  sons  and  daughters 

By  a  hundred  sunny  cities  where  her  tides 
flow  full  and  free, 
Or  on  Caribbean  beaches 
While  the  water  pulls  and  reaches 
At  your  heart-strings — in  your  speeches 

Save  a  sentiment  for  me. 

San  Francisco's  golden  fulgor, 
Catalina's  horticulture, 

Every  symphony  of  gladness,  every  gaiety 
there  be; 

24 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Every  land  and  every  nation 
Somewhere  claim  your  admiration 
From  your  meed  of  approbation 
Save  your   fealty  to  me. 


Cloudless  skies  and  peerless  weather 
Link  my  hearts  and  homes  together 

And  the  crisp,  pure  air  of  Winter  vitalizes 
blood  and  brain ; 
Prairie  breezes  softly  blowing, 
Wheat  fields'   rustle — cattle  lowing — 
Broader  visions  coming — growing — 

Woo,  O  lands,  ye  woo  in  vain! 


25 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


GOD'S  SIGNALMAN 

Well,  no,  I'm  not  superstitious, — at  least,  I  don't 
call  it  that, — 

But  when  someone  spins  a  creepy  yarn  I  don't 
deny  it  flat. 

For  a  man  who  spends  a  lifetime  with  the  throttle 
in  his  hand 

Is  bound  to  have  adventures  that  he  cannot  un- 
derstand ; 

I  sometimes  think  our  knowledge  here  is  but  a 
sorry  show, — 

We're  only  on  the  borderland  of  what  there  is 
to  know. 

I   used  to  think  a  man  could  know  all  things 

that  could  he  known  ; 
That  he  should  not  acknowledge  any  power  above 

his  own ; 
That,  however  strange  the  circumstance,  there 

always  is  a  cause 
That  is  in  complete  obedience  to  some  of  Nature's 

laws ; 

26 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  I  couldn't   shake  conviction  off,  no  matter 

how  I  tried, 
And  I've  changed  my  way  of  thinking  since  the 

night  that  Willie  died. 

Yes,    Willie    was    my    little    son — my    greatest 

earthly  joy — 
And  wife  and  I  just  kind  o'  seemed  to  dote  upon 

the  boy  ; 
When  I  was  out  on  duty  she  would  hover  round 

the  lad, 
And  treasure  up  his  sayings  to  repeat  them  to 

his  dad  ; 
And  every  night,  at  lighting  time,  I  knew  that, 

without  fail, 
His  baby  lips  were  praying  for  the  man  out  on 

the  rail.     .     .     . 

Ah,  well,  for  three  short  years  we  knew  what 

such  a  treasure  is. 
And  we  grew  ever  more  attached  to  those  sweet 

ways  of  his ; 
When  one    day,   swinging  through  the  gate,  I 

saw,  with  blanching  face. 
My  wife  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  a  doctor  in  the 

place.  .    .    . 

27 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


I  tried  to  go  in  steady,  but  my  knees  were  knock- 
ing hard, 

And  the  Hght  went  out  of  heaven  as  I  staggered 
up  the  yard. 

The  doctor  was  a  friend  of  mine,  with  children 

of  his  own, 
But  he  didn't  need  to  tell  me,  for  a  blind  man 

would  have  known 
By  the  labored,  quick-caught  breathing,  and  the 

little  burning  brow. 
That  the  Visitor  was  ready  and  was  waiting  for 

him  now. 
We  sat  about  his  bedside  in  silent,  deep  despair. 
And  the  years  rolled  down  upon  us  as  we  faced 

each  other  there. 

'Twas  a  little  before  midnight  when  a  ring  came 

at  the  bell, 
And  the  call-boy  said,   "Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I 

was  sent  to  tell 
That  Ninety-six  is  waiting,  and  there's  no  one 

else  about ; 
They're  expecting  you  to  take  her.    If  you  don't 

she  can't  go  out." 

28 


Songs  of  the  Pi-airie 


I  left  the  answer  to  my  wife.    With  lips  as  white 

as  snow, 
She  whispered,  "Do  your  duty,"  and  I  said,  "All 

right,  I'll  go." 

My  fireman  knew  my  trouble,  and  in  rough-and- 
ready  way 

He  let  me  know  his  heart  was  feeling  things 
he  couldn't  say ; 

The  night  was  dark  and  moonless,  but  the  bright 
stars  overhead 

Seemed  to  whisper  to  each  other,  "His  little  boy 
is  dead." 

The  very  locomotive  seemed  to  read  my  thoughts 
aright, 

And  the  monster  sobbed  in  sympathy  as  we  bul- 
leted  the  night. 

We'd  been  running  fast  and  steady  till  a  little 
after  two ; 

All  the  passengers  were  fast  asleep,  except,  per- 
haps, a  few 

Who  sat  a-swapping  stories  in  the  smoker,  when 
a  sight 

Met  my  eyes  that  fairly  froze  my  blood  in  terror 
and  afifright — 

29 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


For  there,  before  me,  standing  in  the  halo  of 

the  Hght 
Was  a  Httle  child  outlined  against  the  blackness 

of  the  night! 

Oh,  I  could  not  be  mistaken,  I  would  know  him 
anywhere, 

With  his  father's  mouth  and  forehead,  and  his 
mother's  eyes  and  hair, 

And  little  arms  outstretched  to  me  that  seemed 
to  coax  and  say, 

"Come,  Daddy,  come  and  kiss  me,  for  I'm  going 
far  away." 

I  flung  the  brake  and  throttle,  and  amid  the  hiss- 
ing steam 

The  vision  grew,  and  waned  away,  and  vanished 
as  a  dream ! 

My   fireman   was   beside   me:     "Your    nerve   is 

going.  Jack ; 
Let's  leave  the  engine  here  and  take  a  walk  along 

the  track. 
The  exercise  will  do  you  good."     I  followed  as 

he  led, 
Until    we    reached    the   gorge   alx)ut   a   hundred 

yards  ahead : 

30 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  night  wind  cooled  my  temples  as  we  walked 

the  bridge  upon, 
Till  we  sudden  stopped  with  a  sudden  gasp — 

THE  CENTRE  SPAN    WAS  GONE  ! 


You  may  call  it  hallucination,  as  some  of  the 

others  do. 
But  I  know  that  the  Master  took  my  boy  that 

night  at  half-past  two; 
And  the  prayers  of  a  hundred  passengers  had 

been  offered  up  in  vain 
Had  his  spirit,  clad  in  his  baby  dress,  not  stood 

before  my  train.  .    .    . 
I  know   I   cried   in   my   window-seat,   and   was 

otherwise  ill-behaved 
But  the  life  that  I  lost  was  more  to  me  than  all 

the  lives  he  saved. 


31 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


GOING  HOME 

The  village  lights  grew  dim  behind,  the  snow 
lay  vast  and  white 

And  silent  as  an  icy  shroud  spread  out  upon  the 
night  ; 

A  wan  moon  struggled  with  the  clouds  and 
through  the  misty  haze 

The  trails  that  branched  to  left  and  right  were 
tangled  as  a  maze ; 

The  settler's  horses  plodded  in  the  soft,  un- 
certain snow  ; 

And,  stealing  cautiously  behind,  a  Thing  moved 
to  and  fro. 

The  trail  was  little  travelled,  and  the  pale,  sad, 

sickly  light 
Was  hindrance,  rather  than  a  help,  to  read  the 

road  aright ; 
A  dozen  miles  lay  stretched  between  the  settler 

and  his  shack : 
He  thought  of  many  things  that  night — not  once 

of  turning  back. 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Above  the  crunching  of  the  snow  he  heard  the 

rising  wind, 
But  never   looked — and  never   saw — the  Thing 

that  stole  behind. 

The  trail  was  lost ;  the  horses  took  their  way 

across  the  plain  ; 
The  settler  strove  to  hold  the  course,  but  strove, 

alas,  in  vain; 
The  fickle  wind  seemed  scarce  to  stay  a  moment 

at  a  place — 
Now   howling  in  a  rear  attack,  now   snapping 

at  his  face; 
And   nearing,   leering,   peering,   in   the  ghastly, 

ghostly  light, 
The  Thing  came  softly  after  as  it  followed  in 

the  night. 

A    light!    a    light!    a    welcome    light    gleamed 

friendly  from  afar: 
Oh,  can  it  be — it  cannot  be — 'tis  surely  not  a 

star? 
Nay,  nay,  it  is  more  warm  and  near,  a  happy 

farmer's  home 
That  beckons  to  the  wanderer,  "You  need  no 

longer  roam." 

33 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


With  eager  hope  they  hastened  on,  and  pHed 

across  the  plain; 
As  often  as  the  horses  fell  they  rose  to  plunge 

again. 

The  hours  moved  on,  the  miles  moved  on,  they 
followed  as  a  dream 

The  waning  light,  the  dying  light,  of  that  de- 
ceitful gleam. 

And  when  at  last  it  seemed  the  place  must  almost 
be  in  sight, 

The  light  went  out !  Oh,  perfidy !  Oh,  murder- 
ous, mocking  light ! 

'Twas  well  the  ears  grew  deaf  before  the  howling 
of  the  wind. 

Nor  heard  the  ghoulish  chuckle  of  the  gloating 
Thing  behind. 

The  snow  lay  deep;  the  horses  floundered  with 

the  heavy  sleigh. 
Till,  plunging  in  a  sudden  drift,  they  tore  the 

tongue  away ; 
The  sleepy  driver  knew  it  not,  as  through  his 

nerveless  hands 
His  hold  on   life  was  slipping  with  the  frozen 

leather  bands. 

34 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  night  was  calm  and  beautiful,  the  frost  had 

ceased  to  smart.  .   .    , 
The  Thing  had  tept  upon  him  and  was  tearing 

at  his  heart! 


The  room  was  warm  and  cosy,  and  the  light 

was  soft  and  low, 
Her  presence  seemed  to  radiate  a  tender,  girlish 

glow, 
And  when  she  placed  her  hand  in  his,  the  soft, 

caressing  palm 
Was  cure  for  every  trouble,  and  for  every  pain 

a  balm : 
And  she  whispered,  "Sweet,  my  sweetheart,  I'll 

be  faithful,  I'll  be  true; 
In  the  springtime,  in  the  springtime,  I  will  cross 

the  sea  to  you."  .   .   . 
A  little  bed  was  fashioned  in  the  fitful  firelight 

glow  ; 
A  little  boy  was  murmuring  a  prayer  of  long 

ago; 
And  mother-hands  upon  his  head,  that   fondled 

in  his  hair, 
And  sense  of  quiet  comfort  and  respite  from 

every  care; 

35 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  a  pillow  white  and  downy,  and  a  bed  so  soft 

and  deep. 
And  tired   lips   were   lisping,   "Now   I   lay  me 

down  to  sleep."  .   .  . 


Again  the  scene  was  changed:  A  flood  of  mel- 
low, amber  light, 

That  filled  the  soul  with  ecstasy  of  infinite  de- 
light; 

While  crystal-cadenced  music  tinkled  through 
the  yellow  glow, 

The  lullabies  of  childhood  and  the  songs  of  long 
ago; 

The  sea  of  God  on  every  hand  in  silent  silver 
lay: 

An  atom  fell :  its  circles  spread  through  all 
eternity. 


The  Thing  was   gone;  its   work  was   done;  a 

lump  of  lifeless  clay 
Sat  crouching,  crouching,  crouching  in  the  dawn- 
ing of  the  day ; 

36 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The   frozen   eyeballs   stared   upon   a   wilderness 

of  snow, 
And  peered  into  the  future,  to  the  Place  no  man 

may  know. 
A  she- wolf  prowled  about  the  spot,  and  sniffed 

below  the  sleigh, 
And   howled  a  melancholy  howl,  and   slunk  in 

fear  away. 


37 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


JUST  BE  GLAD 

Feelin'  kind  of  all  run  down? 

Mighty  bad: 
Sick  and  tired  o'  life  in  town? 

Don't  be  sad : 
What  you're  needing  isn't  rest : 
Square  your  shoulders,  raise  your  chest; 
Pack  your  turkey ;  go  out  West — 

Just  be  glad ! 

Gone  astray  in  No-Man's-Land? 

Silly  lad! 
Ought  to  have  your  carcass  tanned 

With  a  gad: 
Should  ha'  kept  the  narrow  track: 
Never  mind,  you  can't  go  back; 
Things  may  not  be  quite  so  black — 

Just  be  glad ! 

Gone  and  blown  in  all  your  cash 

On  a  fad? 
Livin'  now  on  souj)  and  hash? 

Writin'  Dad? 

38 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Don't  you  do  it.    Here's  a  tip  ; 
Keep  a  good  stiff  upper  lip; 
Needn't  fall  because  you  slip — 
Just  be  glad! 

Friends  refuse  to  help  you  out? 

Don't  get  mad ! 
You  would  be  a  lazy  lout 

If  they  had. 
Do  not  envy  place  or  pelf; 
Praise  the  Lord,  you've  got  your  health; 
Dig  in!     Be  a  man  yourself — 

Just  be  glad! 

All  the  world  may  say  or  do, 

Good  or  bad, 
Isn't  anything  to  you — 

Just  be  glad ! 
Though  you  work  at  book  or  trade, 
Though  you  work  with  pen  or  spade. 
Hump  yourself — you'll  make  the  grade- 
Just  be  glad! 


39 


Sengs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  CANADIAN  ROCKIES 

(Lines  suggested  in  the  camp  of  the  Alpine 
Club  of  Canada,  Sherhrooke  Lake,  B.  C, 
August,  191 1.) 

"I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes," 

Of  old  the  Psalmist  sung, 
And  we  who  clutch  the  worldly  prize. 

With  Earth's  distractions  wrung, 
Still  turn  our  fevered  fancy's  gaze 

Where  snowy  summits  greet  the  day, 
Where  Nature  guards  her  mysteries, 

And  Time  becomes  Eternity 

Where,  changeless  in  eternal  change. 

The  Rockies  clip  the  clouds, 
And  glacial  lakes  and  granite  range 

Sleep,  in  their  snowy  shrouds ; 
Where  silence  hushes  discontent. 

And  petty  fears  are  lost  in  space, 
The  [Guilder  of  the  firmament 

Still  meets  His  people,  face  to  face! 

40 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


O  barren  cares  that  bitter  life, 
O  hopes  unwisely  dear, 

0  fruitless  fallacy  and  strife, 
O  social,  sham  veneer! — 

1  to  the  hills  will  Hft  mine  eyes, 

Where  mantling  cloud  or  cornice  clings, 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  paradise, 
And  turn  again — to  little  things! 


41 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


A  PRAIRIE  HEROINE 

They  were  running  out  the  try-lines,  they  were 
staking  out  the  grade; 

Through  the  hills  they  had  to  measure,  through 
the  sloughs  they  had  to  wade ; 

They  were  piercing  unknown  regions,  they  were 
crossing  nameless  streams, 

With  the  prairie  for  a  pillow  and  the  sky  above 
their  dreams, 

They  were  mapping  unborn  cities  in  the  age- 
long pregnant  clay : 

When  they  came  upon  a  little  mound  across  the 
right-of-way. 

There  were  violets  growing  on  it,  and  a  butter- 
cup or  two, 

That  whispered  of  affection  ever  old  and  ever 
new, 

And  a  little  ring  of  whitewashed  stones,  bright 
in  the  summer  sun, 

But  of  marble  slab  or  granite  pile  or  pillar  there 
was  none ; 

42 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  across  the  sleeping  prairie  lay  a  little,  low- 
built  shack, 

With  a  garden  patch  before  it  and  a  wheat  field 
at  its  back. 

"Well,  boys,  we'd  better  see  him,  and  he  hadn't 

ought  to  kick, 
For  we'll  give  him  time  to  move  it  if  he  does 

it  pretty  quick." 
But  scarcely  had  the  foreman  spoke  when  straight 

across  the  farm 
They  saw  the  settler  coming  with  a  rifle  on  his 

arm; 
Some  would  ha'  hiked  for  cover  but  they  had 

no  place  to  run, 
But  most  of  them  decided  they  would  stay  and 

see  the  fun. 

The  farmer  was  the  first  to  speak :    "I  hate  to 

interfere, 
And  mighty  glad  I  am  to  see  the  railway  comin' 

near. 
But  before  you  drive  your  pickets  across  this 

piece  of  land 
You  ought  to   hear  the  story,  or  you  will  not 

understand : 

43 


Songs  of  the  Frairie 


It's  the  story  of  a  girl  who  was  as  true  as  she 

was  brave, 
And  all  that  now  remains  of  her  is  in  that  little 

grave. 

"I  didn't  want  to  bring  her  when  I  hit  the  trail 

out  West, 
I  knew  I  shouldn't  do  it,  and  I  did   my  level 

best 
To  coax  her  not  to  come  out  for  a  year  or  two 

at  least, 
But  to  stay  and  take  it  easy  with  her  friends 

down  in  the  East ; 
But  while  I  coaxed  and  argued   I   was   feelin' 

mighty  glum. 
And  right  down  in  my  heart  I  kep'  a-hopin'  she 

would  come. 

"Well,  by  rail  and  boat  and  saddle  we  got  out 

here  at  last, 
A-livin'  in  the  future,  and  forgettin'  of  the  past; 
We   built  ourselves   a   little   home,   and   in   our 

work  and  care 
It  seemed  to  me  she  always  took  what  was  the 

lion's  share ; 

44 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


God  knows  just  what  she  suffered,  but  she  hid 

it  with  a  smile, 
And  made  out  that  she  thought  I  was  the  only 

thing  worth  while. 

"She  stood  it  through  the  summer  and  the  warm, 

brown  days  of  fall, 
And  of  all  the  voices  calling  her  she  would  not 

hear  the  call ; 
But  when  the  winter  settled  with  its  cold,  white 

pall  of  snow 
She  seemed  to  whiten  with  it,  but  she  thought 

I  didn't  know  ; 
She  tried  to  keep  her  spirits  up  and  laugh  my 

fears  away. 
But  I  saw  her  growing  thin  and  ever  weaker 

day  by  day. 

"At  last  I   couldn't  stand   it  any   longer,   so   I 

said, 
'I  think  you'd  better  try  and  spend  a  day  or  two 

in  bed 
While  I  go  for  a  doctor.     It's  only  sixty  miles.' 
She  gave  a  little  wistful  look,  half  hidden  in  her 

smiles, 

45 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  said,  'Perhaps  you'd  better,  though  I  think 

ril  be  all  right 
When  the  spring  comes.'   .    .    .   Well,  I  started 

out  that  night. 

"I  made  the  trip  on  horseback,  by  the  guiding 

Polar  star 
And  a  dozen  times  the  distance  never  seemed 

one  half  so  far. 
But   the   doctor   had    gone   out   of   town, — just 

where,  no  one  could  say, 
And  a  lump  rose  in  my  chest  that   fairly  took 

my  breath  away. 
But  I  daren't  stay  there  thinking,  and  my  search 

for  him  was  vain, 
So  I  bought  some  wine  and  brandy  and  I  started 

home  again. 

"Forgetful  of  my  horse,  I  spent  the  whole  night 

on  the  road, 
Till  early  in   the  morning  he  collapsed  beneath 

his  load ; 
I  saw  the  brute  was  done  for,  and  although  it 

made  me  cry, 
I  hacked  into  his  jug'lar  vein  and  left  him  there 

to  die ; 

46 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  then  I  shouldered  the  suppHes  and  stag- 
gered on  alone, 

And  thinking  of  my  wife's  distress  I  quite  forgot 
my  own. 

"She  must  ha'  watched  all  night  for  me,  for  in 

the  morning  grey 
She  saw  me  stagger  in  the  snow  and  fall  beside 

the  way 
And  God  knows  how  she  did  it — she  was  only 

skin  and  bone — 
But  she  came  out  here  and  found  me  and  dragged 

me  home  alone, 
And  she  took  the  precious  liquor  that  had  cost 

us  all  so  dear. 
And  poured  it  down  this  worthless  hulk  that's 

standin'  blatin'  here.  .    .    . 

"I  guess  you  know  what  happened — I  lived,  she 

passed  away  ; 
I  robed  her  in  her  wedding-dress  and  laid  her  in 

the  clay ; 
And  every  spring  I  plant  the  flowers  that  grow 

upon  her  grave, 
For  I   hold   the  spot   as   sacred   as   the  Arima- 

thaen's  cave ; 

47 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And   when  the    winter   snows   have   come,    and 

all  is  white  and  still, 
I  spread  a  blanket  on  the  mound  to  keep  out 

frost  and  chill. 

"Folks  say  I've  got  a  screw  loose,  that  I've  gone 

to  acting  queer, 
But  I  sometimes  hear  her  speaking,  and  I  know 

she's  always  near ; 
And  sometimes  in  the  night  I   feel  the  pressure 

of  her  hand, 
And   for  a  blessed  hour  I   share  with  her  the 

Promised   Land : — 
Let  man  or  devil  undertake  to  desecrate  my  dead 
And  as  sure  as  God's  in  heaven  I  will  pump  him 

full  of  lead." 

They   were   rough-and-ready   railway   men  who 

stood  about  the  spot, 
They  were  men  that  lied  and  gambled  they  were 

men  that  drank  and  fought, 
Rut  some  of  them  were  sneezing,  and  some  were 

coughing  bad, 
And  some  were  blowing  noses  on  anything  they 

had ; 

48 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  some  of  them  were  swallowing  at  lumps 

that  shouldn't  come, 
And  some  were  swearing  softly,  and  some  were 

simply  dumb. 


At  last  the  foreman  found  his  voice:  "I  guess 

your  claim  is  sound ; 
I  wouldn't  care  to  run  a  track  across  that  piece 

of  ground.  .   .    . 
We'll  have  to  change  our  lay-out  .  .   .  but  I  hope 

...  we  have  the  grace 
To  build  a  fitting  monument  to  mark  that  holy 

place  ; 
Put  me  down  for  a  hundred;  now,  boys,  how 

much  for  you?" 
And  they  answered  in  a  chorus,  "We'll  see  the 

business  through." 


The  passengers  upon  a  certain  railway  o'er  the 

plain 
See  a  shining  shaft  of  marble  from  the  windows 

of  the  train, 

49 


Gongs  of  the  Prairie 


But  they  do  not  know  the  story  of  the  girl-wife 
in  the  snow 

And  the  broken-hearted  farmer  with  his  lonely 
life  of  woe, 

And  none  of  them  have  guessed  that  the  deflec- 
tion in  the  line 

Is  the  railway  builders'  tribute  to  a  prairie 
heroine. 


50 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  SEER 

In  the  dingy  dust  of  his  deerskin  tent  sat  the 

chief  of  a  dying  race, 
And  the  lake  that  lapt  at  his  wigwam  door  threw 

back  a  frowning  face, 
And  a  sightless  squaw  at  the  centre-pole  crooned 

low  in  a  hybrid  speech, 
When  a  man  of  God  swept  round  the  point  and 

landed  on  the  beach. 

The  heavy  eyes  grew  bright  with  fire,  the  lips 

shaped  to  a  sneer — 
"Welcome,  my  paleface  brother,  what  good  news 

brings  you  here? 
Are  you  come   with  the  voice  of  healing,  with 

the  book  of  your  blameless  breed. 
To  soothe  my  soul  with  comfort  while  my  body 

gnaws  with  need? 

"Welcome,  O  paleface  brother ;  come,  what  have 

you  to  fear? 
Mayhap  the  redskin  chieftain  can  teach  as  well 

as  hear ; 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  while  we  sing  your  sacred  songs  and  breathe 

your  mystic  prayer, 
Who  knows  what  inspiration  may  come  on  the 

ev'ning  air?  .   .   . 

"Listen ;  you  are  a  scholar,  schooled  in  the  pale- 
face lore: 

'Tis  said  a  dying  saint  may  somtimes  see  the 
shining  shore ; 

That  closing  eyes  peer  far  beyond  the  realm  of 
mortal  sight, — 

Who  knows  but  that  a  dying  race  may  read  the 
road  aright? 

"A  dying  race !  We  know  it ;  the  land  is  ours 

no  more, 
No  more  we  roam  the  prairies  as  in  the  days 

of  yore; 
The  brave,  free  spirit  that  was  ours  is  crushed 

and  passed  away, 
And   bodies   without   spirits   are  predestined   to 

decay. 

"No  matter.     In   the   summertime   the   flowers 

bloom  in  the  grass, 
The  startled  insects  flood  the  fields  and  chirrup 
as  you  pass, 

52 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  birds   sing  in  the  bushes;  but  before  the 

wintry  blast 
The  flowers  and  the  insects  and  the  little  birds 

are  past. 

"Yet  once  again  the  spring  will  come,  the  flowers 

will  bloom  again, 
And  insects  chirrup  blithely  where  the   former 

ones  are  lain ; 
The  white  snows  of  the  wintertime  will  vanish 

in  the  heat, 
And  out-door  life   and  color   will   follow  their 

defeat. 

"Can  the  paleface  read  the  riddle?    Has  he  eyes 

to  see  the  signs? 
Or  thinketh  he  that  snow  will  He  forever  on  the 

pines? 
That  housed-up  life  can  triumph  for  the  mastery 

of  state, 
Or  cushioned  chairs  produce  a  race  destined  to 

dominate ' 

"Behold,  the  things  your  hands  have  done,  the 

power  your  arts  have  won — 
Behold,  those  things   shall  vanish  as   the  snow 

before  the  sun  ; 

53 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  snow  that  smothered  out  the  red — ah,  hear 

it  if  you  can — 
Shall  leave  the  earth  as  suddenly,  and  leave  it 

brown  and  tan. 

"Hear   ye   a    little    lesson — surely   ye   know    its 

worth — 
Only  an  out-door  nation  can  be  master  of  the 

earth ; 
Soon  as  ye  seek  your  couches,  soft  with  the  spoils 

of  trade — 
See  well  to  your  outer  trenches  before  the  mines 

are  laid ! 

"Hear    ye    a    little    lesson — can    ye    the    truth 

divine? 
Milk  ye  may  mix  with   water,  and   water  will 

mix  with  wine ; 
Mix  as  ye  may  on  your  prairies,  mix  in  your 

hope,  and  toil. 
But  know  in  all  your  mixing  that  water  won't 

mix  with  oil !" 

In  the  dingy  dusk  of  his  deerskin  tent  sat  the 

chief  of  a  dying  race, 
And  the  glow  of  holy  prophecy  lit  up  his  rugged 

face, 

54 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  the  foremost  light  of  the  setting  sun  fell 

far  on  an  eastern  land, — 
And  who  shall  save  the  paleface  if  he  will  not 

understand? 


55 


Songs  of  the  Frairie 


THE  SON  OF  MARQUIS  NODDLE 

He   is   brand-new   out    from    England   and    he 

thinks  he  knows  it  all — 

(There's  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  goggle  in  his  eye) 

The  "colonial"  that  crosses  him  is  going  to  get 

a  fall— 

(There's  a  seven-pound  revolver  on  his  thigh). 

He's  a  son  of  Marquis  Noddle,  he's  a  nephew 

of  an  earl, 
In  the  social  swim  of  England  he's  got  'em  all 

awhirl, 
He's  as  confident  as  Caesar  and  as  pretty  as  a 
girl— 
Oh,  he's  out  in  deadly  earnest,  do  or  die. 

They  will  spot  him  in  the  cities  by  the  cowhide 
on  his  feet — 
(They   were   built    for   crushing  cobblestones 
at  'ome) 
And  the  giddy  girls  will  giggle  when  they  see 
him  on  the  street  — 
(There's  a  brand-new  cowboy   hat   upon   his 
dome). 

56 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


He  has   come   from   home   and  kindred  to  the 

land  beyond  the  sea, 
To  the  far-famed  land  of  plenty,  to  the  country 

of  the  free, 
But  he  can't  forget  he  owns  it  from  Cape  Race 

to  Behring  Sea — 
He  is  coming  just  as  Caesar  would  to  Rome. 


When  his  pile  is  getting  slender  he'll  go  looking 
for  a  job, 
(And  he  thinks  he  ought  to  get  it,  don't-cher- 
know) 

But  he  finds  that  he  must  mingle  with  the  com- 
mon city  mob 
(How  can  they  think  that  he  would  stoop  so 
low?). 

So  he  hikes  him  to  the  country,  where  the  rustics 
will  be  proud 

To  salute  him  when  they  meet  him,  and  to  whis- 
per, nice  and  loud, 

"He's  the  son  of  Marquis  Noddle, — you  would 
know  him  in  a  crowd" — 

They  will  pay  him  there  the  homage  that  they 
owe. 

57 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


In  the  Httle  country  village  he  will  manufacture 

mirth — 
(For   it's  there  they  take  the  measure  of  a 

swell) 
They   will   soon  proceed   to  teach  him  that   he 

doesn't  own  the  earth 
(With  a  quit-claim  on  the  sun  and  moon  as 

well). 
They  will  show  him  that  the  country  isn't  alto- 
gether slow, 
And  that  they  can  travel  any  pace  that  he's  a 

mind  to  go ; 
He  will  be  a  right  good  fellow  till  they  run  him 

out  of  dough — 
Oh,  it  is  a  tale  of  merriment  they  tell! 

So  to  keep  his  bones  together  he  goes  working 
on  a  farm, 
(Where  they  get  up  at  a  little  after  two) 
Where  they  think  to  take  him  down  a  peg  will 
not  do  him  any  harm, 
(And  they  sleep  when  there  is  nothing  else  to 
do). 
Where  they  work  him  like  a  nigger  nearly  twenty 

hours  a  day, 
And  they  don't  disguise  the  fact  that  they  con- 
sider him  a  jay, 

58 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  he  eats  so  much  and  sleeps  so  much  he  isn't 
worth  his  pay — 
Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  that  his  blood  is  blue. 

He  decides  to  do  a  season  as  a  cowboy  in  the 
West, 
(Where  they  call  a  man  a  boy  until  he's  dead) 
And  he  tries  to  walk  a-swagger  with  a  military 
chest, 
(And  he  isn't  overslept  or  overfed). 
They  will  set  him  breaking  bronchos,  though  it's 

little  to  his  mind ; 
With  many  new-learned  epithets  he'll  perforate 

the  wind — 
How  can  he  know  the  boys  have  stuck  a  thistle 
on  behind? 
He  will  end  the  exhibition  on  his  head. 

They  will  fill  him  full  of  liquor  that'll   frizzle 
his  inside, 
(In  the  cooler  he  can  square  it  with  his  God). 
He   will  spend  his  nights   in  places  where  the 
demi-monde  reside, 
(In   the  morning  he'll  be  minus   watch  and 
wad). 

59 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


They'll  abuse  him  as  a  youngster,  they  will  mock 

him  as  a  man, 
They'll  make  his  life  a  thorny  path  in  every  way 

they  can, 
Till  he  curses  his  existence  and  the  day  that  it 

began. 
And  he  wishes  he  was  rotting  in  the  sod. 

He  will  write  long  tales  to   England,  tales  of 

bitterness  and  woe, 

(They  will  print  'em  in  the  papers  over  there). 

He  will  tell  them  pretty  nearly  everything  he 

doesn't  know, 

(And  they'll  take  it  all  for  gospel  over  there). 

He  will  tell  them  that  the  country  isn't  fit  for 

gentlemen, 
That  any  who  escape  from  it  do  not  come  back 

again, 
He  is  handy  with  his  language  and  he  wields  a 
bitter  pen — 
To  the  truth  of  each  assertion  he  would  swear. 

He's  a  growler,  he's  a  growser,  he's  a  nuisance, 

he's  a  bum, 
(And  the  country  hasn't  any  room  for  such) 
And  they  class  him  in  the  papers  as  "European 

scum," 

60 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


(They    would    rather   have   the    Irish   or    the 
Dutch). 
He's  the  butt  of  every  jester,  he's  the  mark  of 

every  joke, 
He  is  wearing  borrowed  trousers — he  has  put 

his  own  in  soak — 
He's  a  useless  good-for-nothing,  beaten,  buffeted, 
and  broke, 
And  of  sympathy  he  won't  get  over-much. 


In  a  dozen  years  you'll  find  him  with  a  section  of 
his  own, 
(He  had  to  learn  his  lesson  at  the  start) 
With  a  happy  wife  and  children  he  is  trying  to 
atone — 
(For  he  loves  the  country  now  with  all  his 
heart). 
He's  a  son  of  dear  old  England,  he's  a  hero, 

he's  a  brick ; 
He's  the  kind  you  may  annihilate  but  you  can 

never  lick. 
For  he  played  and  lost,  and  played  and  lost,  and 
stayed  and  took  the  trick ; 
In  a  world  of  men  he'll  play  a  manly  part. 

6i 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  PRODIGALS 

Knee-deep  our  prairies  link  the  seas, 

Flood-full  our  voiceless  rivers  wend; 
We  hold  unturned  the  larder  keys 
On  which  the  future  years  depend : 

And  shall  we  suffer  alien  throngs 
Usurp  the  land  to  us  belongs? 

What  though  we  are  to  fortune  born 

And  all  our  paths  are  paved  with  gold? 
We  flaunt  our  folly  up  to  scorn, 
Because  we  keep  not  what  we  hold : 

Why  should  we  rob  our  right  of  birth 
To  foster  all  the  breeds  of  earth? 

We  picture  with  unfeigned  dismay 
Man-glutlcd  lands  of  other  flags, 
They  multii)ly  but  to  decay. 
And  rot  in  pestilence  and  rags ; 

Why  hasten  we  to  emulate 
These  helpless  tragedies  of  Fate? 

62 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


The  land  our  children's  sons  will  need, 
That  land  we  have  wide  open  thrown 
To  heathen  knaves  of  other  breed 
And  paunchy  pirates  of  our  own : 

We  give  away  earth's  greatest  prize, 
And  pat  ourselves,  and  call  us  wise. 

No  father  he  who  to  the  slums 

For  husband  to  his  cirild  would  send. 
And  no  one  worthy  of  her  comes 
She  lives  a  maiden  to  the  end: 

Yet  we  have  placed  our  virgin  trust 
In  spawn  of  Continental  lust. 

If  dumb  we  be  to  Reason's  cries— 

Our  children's  cause  she  pleads  in  vain- 
Our  outraged  sons  at  length  will  rise 
And  seize  their  heritage  again ; 

And  fools,  who  prate  of  vested  right, 
Will  either  cease  to  prate — or  fight. 

The  land  is  ours,  the  land  will  keep, 
And  Time  is  nowise  near  its  end; 
We  hold  our  birthright  all  too  cheap 
Its  sacredness  to  comprehend ; 

In  after  years  our  pons  will  say, 
"Why  frittered  ye  the  land  away?" 

63 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  SQUAD  OF  ONE 

Sergeant  Blue  of  the  Mounted  Police  was  a 

so-so  kind  of  a  guy ; 
He  swore  a  bit,  and  he  Hed  a  bit,  and  he  boozed 

a  bit  on  the  sly ; 
But  he  held  the  post  at  Snake  Creek  Bend  for 

country  and  home  and  God, 
And  he  cursed  the  first  and   forgot  the  rest — 

which  wasn't  the  least  bit  odd. 

Now  the  life  of  the  North  West  Mounted  Police 

breeds  an  all-round  kind  of  man ; 
A  man  who  can  jug  a  down-South  thug  when 

he  rushes  the  red-eye  can ; 
A  man  who  can  pray  with  a  dying  bum  or  break 

up  a  range  stampede — 
Such  are  the  men  of  the  Mounted  Police  and 

such  are  the  men  they  breed. 

The  snow  lay  deep  at  the  Snake  Creek  post  and 

deep  to  east  and  west, 
And  the  Sergeant  had  made  his  ten-league  beat 

and  settled  down  to  rest 

64 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


In   his   two-by-four   that   they   called   a   "post," 

where  the  flag  flew  overhead, 
And  he  took  a  look  at  his  monthly  mail,  and  this 

is  the  note  he  read: 

"To  Sergeant  Blue  of  the  Mounted  Police  at  the 

post  of  Snake  Creek  Bend, 
From  U.  S.  Marshal  of  County  Blank,  greetings 

to  you,  my  friend, 
They's  a  team  of  toughs  give  us  the  slip,  though 

they  shot  up  a  couple  of  blokes. 
And  we  reckon  they's  hid  in  Snake  Creek  Gulch 

and  posin'  as  farmer  folks. 

"They's  as  full  of  sin  as  a  barrel  of  booze  and 

as  quick  as  a  cat  with  a  gun. 
So  if  you  happen  to  hit  their  trail  be  first  to 

start  the  fun ; 
And  send  out  your  strongest  squad  of  men  and 

round  them  up  if  you  can, 
For  dead  or  alive  we  want  them  here.     Yours 

truly,  Jack  McMann." 

And  Sergeant  Blue  sat  back  and  smiled,  "Ho, 

here  is  a  chance  of  game! 
Folks  'round  here  have  been  so  good  that  life  is 

getting  tame; 

65 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


I  know  the  lie  of  Snake  Creek  Gulch — where  I 

used  to  set  my  traps — 
I'll   blow   out   there   to-morrow   and   I'll   bring 

them  in — perhaps." 

Next  morning  Sergeant  Blue,  arrayed  in  farmer 

smock  and  jeans, 
In  a  jumper  sleigh  he  had  made  himself  set  out 

for  the  evergreens 
That  grow  on  the  bank  of  Snake  Creek  Gulch 

by  a  homestead  shack  he  knew, 
And  a  smoke  curled  up  from  the  chimney-pipe 

to  welcome  Sergeant  Blue. 

"Aha,   and   that   looks   good  to  me,"   said  the 

Sergeant  to  the  smoke, 
"For  the  lad  that  owns  this  homestead  shack  is 

East  in  his  wedding-yoke ; 
There  are   strangers  here  and  I'll  bet  a  farm 

against  a  horn  of  booze 
That  they  are  the  bums  that  are  predestined  to 

dangle  in  a  noose." 

So  he  drove  his  horse  to  the  shanty  door  and 

hollered  a  loud  "Good-day," 
And  a  couple  of  men  with  fighting-irons  came 

out  beside  the  sleigh, 

66 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  the  Sergeant  said,  "I'm  a  stranger  here  and 

I've  driven  a  weary  mile ; 
If  you  don't  object  I'll  just  sit  down  by  the 

stove  in  the  shack  awhile." 

So  the  Sergeant  sat  and  smoked  and  talked  of  the 
home  he  had  left  down  East, 

And  the  cold,  and  the  snow,  and  the  price  of  land, 
and  the  life  of  man  and  beast, 

But  all  of  a  sudden  he  broke  it  ofif  with,  "Neigh- 
bors, take  a  nip? 

There's  a  horn  of  the  best  you'll  find  out  there 
in  my  jumper,  in  the  grip." 

So  one  of  the  two  went  out  for  it,  and  as  soon 

as  he  closed  the  door 
The  other  one  staggered  back  as  he  gazed  up  the 

nose  of  a  forty-four, 
But  the  Sergeant  wasted  no  words  with  him, 

"Now,  fellow,  you're  on  the  rocks, 
And  a  noise  as  loud  as  a  mouse  from  you  and 

they'll  take  you  out  in  a  box." 

So  he  fastened  the  bracelets  to  his  wrists  and 
his  legs  with  some  binder-thread, 

And  he  took  his  knife  and  he  took  his  gun  and  he 
rolled  him  onto  the  bed ; 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  then  as  number  two  came  in  he  said,  "If 

you  want  to  live, 
Put  up  your  dukes  and  behave  yourself  or  I'll 

make  you  into  a  sieve." 


And  when  he  had  coupled  them  each  to  each, 
and  laid  them  out  on  the  bed, 

"It's  cold,  and  I  guess  we'd  better  eat  before  we 
go,"  he  said. 

So  he  fried  some  pork  and  he  warmed  some 
beans,  and  he  set  out  the  best  he  saw, 

And  they  ate  thereof,  and  he  paid  for  it,  accord- 
ing to  British  law. 


That  night  in  the  post  sat  Sergeant  Blue  with 

paper  and  pen  in  hand, 
And  this  is  the  word  he  wrote  and  signed  and 

mailed  to  a  foreign  land : 
"To  U.  S.  Marshall  of  County  Blank,  greetings 

I  give  to  you ; 
My  squad  has  just  brought  in  your  men,  and 

the  squad  was 

'^Sergeant    Blue." 
68 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


There  are  things  ungncsscd,  there  are  tales  tin- 
told,  in  the  life  of  the  great  lone  land, 

But  here  is  a  fact  that  the  prairie-bred  alone  may 
understand, 

That  a  thousand  miles  in  the  fastness  the  fear 
of  the  law  obtains. 

And  the  pioneers  of  justice  were  the  "Riders  of 
the  Plains." 


69 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


ALKALI  HALL 

When  Lord  Landseeker  came  out  West  to  have 

a  look  around, 
And  spend  a  little  money  if  the  right  thing  could 

be  found, 
He  hadn't  breathed  the  prairie  air  more  than  a 

day  or  two 
Until  he  was  the  centre  of  a  philanthropic  crew 
Who  sought  to  show  His  Lordship  all  the  short- 
cuts to  success 
(Though  why  they   should  have  troubled.   His 

Lorship  couldn't  guess. 
For    each    was    losing    money,    as    he    candidly 

confessed, 
Which  seemed  to  be  a  fashion  with  the  dealers 

in  the  West). 

Thus    His    Lorship    grew    suspicious    that    his 

"friends"  would  turn  him  down, 
And  he  quietly  bought  a  ticket  to  a  little  country 

town; 

70 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  he  didn't  know  the  message  that  was  flashed 

along  the  wire 
To  a  simple  country  dealer  in  the  land  of  his 

desire ; 
And  it  read:    "Look  out   for  Goggles,  he'll  be 

with  you  this  a.  m." 
And    the    crowd    around    the    station — well,    he 

merely  smiled  to  them, 
And    thought    it   jolly    decent   they'd   assemble, 

don'tcherknow, 
And  file  along  behind  him  as  they  followed,  in 

a  row. 


The  snow  had  fallen  softly  all  the  calm  Novem- 
ber night. 

And  the  morning  found  the  prairies  with  a  cover- 
ing of  white ; 

But  His  Lordship  took  a  citizen  who  "happened" 
in  his  way. 

And  they  drove  into  the  country  for  the  most 
part  of  the  day, 

Until  they  reached  a  section  that  was  flat  and 
free  from  stone, 

And  the  citizen  remarked  about  a  fellow  he  had 
known 

71 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Who  offered   thirty  dollars   for  this   section   in 

the  fall, 
But  the  owner  wanted  forty,  or  he  wouldn't  sell 

at  all. 

Then    His    Lordship    drove    across    it,    and    it 

seemed  to  catch  his  eye, 
And   he   whispered   to   the   driver,    "That's   the 

section  I   will  buy ;" 
So  in  town  they  found  the  owner,  who  was  very 

loath  to  sell. 
But  he  finally  consented,  if  His  Lordship  wouldn't 

tell 
That  the  price  was  forty  dollars  by  the  acre ;  this 

agreed, 
A   lawyer   drew   the   papers   and   His   Lordship 

got  the  deed. 
And  he  sailed  across  the  ocean  with  the  satisfy- 
ing thought 
That   he'd    followed   his   own   judgment    in  the 

bargain  he  had  bought. 

The  winter  snows  had  vanished  and  the  spring 

was  growing  late. 
When  Lord  Landseeker  came  again  to  view  his 

real  estate, 

72 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  he  drove  out  in  a  buggy  to  where  his  section 

lay, 
And   his   heart  was  very  happy  as   he   smoked 

along  the  way 
Till  the  section  burst  upon  them,  and  he  scarce 

believed  his  sight, 
For  the  land  lay  in  the  sunshine,  flashing  back 

a  snowy  white 

And  His  Lordship  stooped  and   felt  it,  and  he 

heaved  a  little  sigh. 
As  the   knowledge   dawned   upon   him  that  his 

land  was — alkali! 

His  Lordship  did  some  thinking  as  they  jour- 
neyed back  to  town. 

And  his  wonted  happy  features  were  o'er- 
shadowed  with  a  frown ; 

But  he  neither  crawled  nor  blustered,  neither 
bluffed  nor  swore  nor  kicked, 

(For  the  men  from  little  England  never  know 
when  they  are  licked). 

But  he  advertised  for  tenders  for  construction 
on  the  land, 

And  the  buildings  he  erected  were  the  best  he 
could  command  ; 

73 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


With  a  hundred  rooms  for  students,  and  quarters 

for  the  staff, 
And  the  workmen  often  wondered  what  made 

His  Lordship  laugh ! 

In  the  papers  of  Old  England  there  appeared 

a  little  ad, 
For  the  benefit  of  parents  whose  sons  were  going 

bad; 
"Teach  your  boys  the  art  of  farming  in  the  great 

Canadian  West ; 
Our   instruction    is    unrivalled,   our    curriculum 

the  best ; 
There's  a  grate  in  every  chamber  and  a  bath  in 

every  hall, 
And   a    full    dress-suited   dinner   every   ev'ning, 

free  to  all ; 
There  is  tennis,  polo,  marksmanship,   and  half 

the  day  in  bed, 
And  we  make  them  into  farmers  for  a  hundred 

pounds  a  head." 

His  Lordship's  college  prospers  and  is  crowded 
to  the  doors 

With  "students"  playing  poker  while  the  "ser- 
vants" do  the  chores; 

74 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


What  they  do  not  know  of  farming  they  make 

up  in  other  lines 
They  are  judges  of  tobacco  and  connoisseurs  of 

wines ; 
They  are  experts  at  the   races   and  at   sundry 

other  games — 
Though  they  couldn't  tell  the  breeching  of  the 

harness  from  the  hames — 
Though  they're  far  from  home  and  kindred  they 

occasion  no  alarm, 
That  Tixas  zvhat  their  parents  zvanted  zvhen  they 

sent  them  out  to  farm. 


75 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


PRAIRIE  BORN 

We  have  heard  the  night  wind  howling  as  we 

lay  alone  in  bed; 
'  We  have  heard  the  grey  goose   honking  as  he 

journeyed  overhead ; 
We  have  smelt  the  smoke-wraith  flying  in  the 

hot  October  wind, 
And  have  fought  the  fiery  demon  that  came  roar- 
ing down  behind ; 
We  have  seen  the  spent  snow  sifting  through 

the  key-hole  of  the  door. 
And    the    frost-line   crawling,    crawling,    like   a 

snake,  along  the  floor ; 
We  have   felt  the  storm-fiend  wrestle  with  the 

rafters  in  his  might, 
And  the  baffled  blizzard   shrieking  through  the 

turmoil  of  the  night. 

We  have  felt  tlic  April  breezes  warm  along  the 

plashy  plains ; 
We   have   mind-marked   to   the   cadence    of   the 

falling  April  rains  : 

7^ 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


We  have  heard  the  crash  of  water  where  the 
snow-fed  rivers  run, 

Seen  a  thousand  silver  lakelets  lying  shining  in 
the  sun; 

We  have  known  the  resurrection  of  the  Spring- 
time in  the  land, 

Heard  the  voice  of  Nature  calling  and  the  words 
of  her  command, 

Felt  the  thrill  of  springtime  twilight  and  the 
vague,  unfashioned  thought 

That  the  season's  birthday  musters  from  the 
hopes  we  had   forgot. 

We  have  heard  the  cattle  lowing  in  the  silent 

summer  nights ; 
We  have  smelt  the  smudge-fire   fragrance — we 

have  seen  the  smudge-fire  lights — 
We  have  heard  the  wild  duck  grumbling  to  his 

mate  along  the  bank  ; 
Heard  the  thirsty  horses  snorting  in  the  stream 

from  which  they  drank; 
Heard  the  voice  of  Youth  and  Laughter  in  the 

long,  slow-gloaming  night ; 
Seen  the  arched  electric  splendor  of  the  Great 

North's  livid  light; 

77 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Read   the    reason   of   existence — felt   the   touch 

that  was  divine — 
And  in  eyes  that  glowed  responsive  sav^  the  End 

of  God's  design. 

We  have  smelt  the  curing  wheat  fields  and  the 
scent  of  new-mown  hay; 

We  have  heard  the  binders  clatter  through  the 
dusty  autumn  day; 

We  have  seen  the  golden  stubble  gleaming 
through  the  misty  rain; 

We  have  seen  the  plow-streaks  widen  as  they 
turned  it  down  again; 

We  have  heard  the  threshers  humming  in  the 
cool  September  night; 

We  have  seen  their  dark  procession  by  the  straw- 
piles'  eerie  light; 

We  have  heard  the  freight  trains  groaning,  slip- 
ping, grinding,  on  the  rail, 

And  the  idle  trace  chains  jingle  as  they  jogged 
along  the  trail. 

We    have    felt    the    cold    of    winter — cursed    by 

tho.^e  who  know  it  not — 
We  have  braved  the  blizzard's  vengeance,  dared 

its  most  deceptive  plot : 

7« 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


We  have  learned  that  hardy  races  grow  from 
hardy  circumstance, 

And  we  face  a  dozen  dangers  to  attend  a  country 
dance ; 

Though  our  means  are  nothing  lavish  we  have 
ahvays  time  for  play, 

And  our  social  life  commences  at  the  closing  of 
the  day; 

We  have  time  for  thought  and  culture,  time  for 
friendliness  and  friend. 

And  we  catch  a  broader  vision  as  our  aspira- 
tions blend. 

We  have  hopes  to  others  foreign,  aims  they 
cannot  understand, 

We,  the  "heirs  of  all  the  ages,"  we,  the  first- 
fruits  of  the  land ; 

Though  we  think  with  fond  affection  of  the 
shores  our  fathers  knew, 

And  we  honor  all  our  brothers — for  a  brother's 
heart  is  true — 

Though  we  stand  with  them  for  progress,  peace, 
and  unity,  and  power. 

Though  we  die  with  them,  if  need  be,  in  our 
nation's  darkest  hour — 


79 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Still  the  prairies  call  us,  call  us,  when  all  other 

voices  fail, 
And  the  call  we  knew  in  childhood  is  the  call 

that  must  prevail. 


80 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


"A  COLONIAL" 

(In  some  circles  the  term  "colonial"  is  still  al- 
loived  to   imply  inferiority  and  dependence.) 

Only  a  Colonial! 

Only  a  man  of  nerve  and  heart 

Who  has  spurned  the  ease  of  the  life  "at 
home," 
Only  a  man  who  would  play  his  part 

In  a  new  breed-birth  on  a  distant  loam; 
Only  a  man  of  sense  and  worth 
Who  is  not  afraid  of  the  ends  of  earth. 

Only  a  Colonial! 

Only  a  man  who  has  cornered  Fate 

And  matched  his  strength  with  the  Unat- 
tained  ; 
Only  the  guard  at  the  Outer  Gate, 

Who  holds  for  you  what  he  has  gained, 
That  your  children,  seized  of  a  better  sense, 
May  share  with  him  Toil's  recompense. 

8i 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Only  a  Colonial ! 

Only  a  man  who  has  bridged  the  deep, 

And  stained  the  map  a  British  hue, 

Who  builds  an  Empire  while  ye  sleep 

And  deeds  the  ownership  to  you. 
'Tis  the  Viking  blood  which  gave  you  birth 
That  has  driven  him  to  the  ends  of  earth. 


Only  a  Colonial! 

Wherever  the  flag  that  ye  think  is  great 

Is  flown  to  the  farthest  winds  that  blow, 
Wherever  the  colonists  ye  berate 

In  their  blind   faith-vision  onward  go, 
Ye  may  find  ye  hearts  that  are  British  still- 
In  your  self-conceit  do  ye  count  them  nil  ? 


Only  a  Colonial ! 

Rough  as  the  bark  of  his  forest  tree 

His  ways  may  seem  to  the  fat  and  sleek, 
But  ye  owe  your  Empire  to  such  as  he, 

Though  the  hoar-frost  glisten  on  his  cheek; 
He  has  carried  your  flag  where  ye  dared  not  go, 
And  little  ye  reck  of  the  debt  ye  owe. 

82 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Only  a  Colonial! 

No  doubt  he  is  raw  on  your  social  laws 

And  grates  on  your  sense  of  caste  and  creed, 
But  he  lives  too  near  to  Facts  and  Cause 

To  study  heraldry  and  breed ; 
And,  knowing  man  in  his  primal  state, 
He  scorns  the  claims  of  the  social  great. 

Only  a  Colonial! 

The  name  in  cheap  contempt  ye   fling. 

Is  not  the  whim  of  birth  or  chance, 
We  well  ignore  the  flippant  sting. 

Or  charge  it  to  your  ignorance ; 
The  colonist,  and  sons  of  his, 
Have  made  the  Empire  what  it  is. 


83 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


LITTLE  TIM   TROTTER 

Little  Tim  Trotter  was  born  in  the  West, 

Where  the  prairie  Hes  sunny  and  brown ; 
Never  was,  surely,  so  welcome  a  guest 

In  the  stateliest  halls  of  the  town ; 
For  Little  Tim  Trotter  was  thoughtful  and  brave, 

And  a  lover  of  summer  and  shower. 
And  Little  Tim  Trotter  took  less  than  he  gave 

To  the  hearts  that  were  under  his  power. 

Little  Tim  Trotter  would  play  in  the  sun, 

Or  lie  in  the  buffalo  grass, 
And  in  fancy  he  saw  the  wild  buffalo  run 

And  the  brave-riding  Indians  pass ; 
And  with  eyes  that  were  deep  as  the  infinite  blue 

He  would  picture  himself  at  their  head, 
For  no  one  so  young  as  this  hunter-man  knew 

That  the  herds  and  the  riders  were  dead. 

Little  Tim  Trotter  would  lie  in  his  bed 

While  the  fire-light  played  low  on  the  floor, 
And  strange  were  the  thought  that  in  Little  Tim's 
head 


84 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Played  low  like  the  fire  at  the  door; 
The  hopes  that  were  his,  and  the  wonders  he 
knew, 

And  the  yearning-  he  had  in  his  heart, 
With  the  glimmering  light  of  the  future  in  view, 

And  Little  Tim  just  at  the  start! 

Little  Tim  Trotter  has  heard  the  long  call 

And  has   answered  with  joy  and  surprise, 
And  the  thoughts  and  the  things  that  are  hid 
from  us  all 

To-day  are  revealed  to  his  eyes ; 
And  he  rides  in  the  van  of  his  buffalo  herd, 

Or  in  camp  with  his  Indians  brave; 
But  Little  Tim  Trotter  speaks  never  a  word 

Through  the  mound  of  a  little  green  grave. 


85 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  VORTEX 

He  farmed  his  own  half -section  and  was  doing 
fairly  well ; 
There  were  seasons  when  the  yield  was  rather 
small, 
But  he  always  had  his  living"  and  had  always 
stuflf  to  sell, 
And  a  little  to  his  credit  in  the  fall ; 

But  he  wearied  of  his  labor  and  he  turned 

a  wistful  eye 
Where  the  City  flashed  its  glamour  on  the 

stranger  passing  by ; 
He  was  sick  of  hogs  and  catllc — he  was 
sick  of  barn   and   sty, 

And  the  City  sucked  him  in. 

He  was  doing  homestead  duties — he  was  in  his 
second  year, 
And  his  quarter  was  the  finest  out-of-doors: 
He'd  a  neighbor  in  the  township — and  they  called 
that  pretty   near, 
An  I  ho  only  had  to  eat  and  do  the  chores; 

86 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Now  he  should  have  been  contented  with 

a  kingdom  of  his  own ; 
He'd   a   fiddle   and    a   rifle   and   a    "bally 

gramophone"    .    .    . 
He   was  sick  of  isolation,    sick  of  living 

there  alone, 

And  the  City  sucked  him  in. 

He  owned  a  little  country  store  and  traded  goods 
for  eggs; 
He  was  salesman,  buyer,  manager  and  clerk ; 
And  the   farmers  gathered  in  his  shop  and  sat 
around  on  kegs 
While  they  smoked  and  wised  they  didn't  have 
to  work; 

He   was  tired  of  tasting  butter  that  he 

didn't   dare   condemn, 
He  was  tired  of  narrow  farmers,  he  was 

tired  of  serving  them. 
And  he  thought  him  of  the  City,  where 
they  close  at  six  P.  M., 

And  the  City  sucked  him  in. 

He  ran  a  country  paper  in  the  town  of  Easy-go, 
And  he  hustled  news  and  helped  to  "dis"  the 
"dead"; 

87 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


He  was  editor  and  devil,  he  was  master  of  the 
show, 
And  the  Union  had  no  haUer  on  his  head; 

But  he  couldn't  raise  his  circulation  over 

twenty  quires, 
He  was  tired  of  washing  rollers,  he  was 

tired  of  building  fires, 
He  was  tired  of  eulogizing  men  he  knew 

were  mostly  liars, 

And  the  City  sucked  him  in. 


He  practised  law  and  real  estate  and  owned  a 
house  and  lot; 
He'd  a  client  every  once-awhile  or  so ; 
He   drove   into   the   country   when   the    summer 
days  were  hot, 
Or  in  winter  for  a  sleigh-ride  in  the  snow ; 
He'd   ciKiugh  to  live  in  comfort  and  he 

always  paid  his  bills, 
But  he  tired  of  country  customs  and  he 

wanted  Fashion's   frills; 
He  was  sick  of  fire  insurance,  he  was  sick 
of  drawing  wills, 

And  tlie  City  sucked  him  in. 

88 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


He'd  a  loyal  congregation  and  his  views  were 
orthodox 
Though  his  salary  was  less  than  he  was  worth, 
He'd  a  personal   regard   for  the   future  of  his 
flocks, 
And  he  shared   with  them  their  sorrow  and 
their  mirth ; 

But  he  longed  for  larger  service  and  for 

bright  companionship. 
And  a  stipend  that  would  justify  his  wife 

to  take  a  trip ; 
And  he  read  his  resignation  and  he  packed 
his  little  grip, 

And  the  City  sucked  him  in. 

She  was  just  a  country  maiden  with  ambitions  of 
her  own, 
She  could  wash  and  she  could  churn  and  she 
could  cook, 
But  she  longed  for  broader  vision  and  a  bigger, 
better  zone, 
And  she  studied  all  about  it  in  a  book ; 

She'd  a  home  and  she  had  kindred,  she'd 

a  roof  above  her  head, 
She  had  time  for  work  and  leisure,  she'd 
a  chance  to  love  and  wed ; 

89 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  they  saw  her  leave  the  village — they 
had  better  seen  her  dead — 

And  the  City  sucked  her  in. 

Now  there's  one  of  them  a  millionaire  and  one 
of  them  in  jail, 
And  one  of  them  is  working  on  the  street; 
And  one  is  washing  dishes,  and  one  has  "hit  the 
trail," 
For  six  have  drunk  the  sorrows  of  defeat; 
And   one  that's    never   spoken  of   where 

once  she  was  supreme, 
And  one — they  found  him  floating  in  an 

eddy  of  the  stream: 
They  have  paid  the  price  of  knowledge, 
they  have  dreamed  their  little  dream : 
And  the  City  sucked  them  in. 


90 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


THE  OLD  GUARD 

Knew  you  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?     Men 

of  the  camp  and  trail; 
Guard  of  the  van  when  Time  began  in  the  land 

of  grass  and  gale, 
Of  a  sky-wide  land  they  seized  command  where 

the  mightiest  prevail. 

Who  were  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?     Giants 

of  strength  and  will, 
Trained    in   the    school    of    hard-luck    rule   and 

daring  to  die  or  kill  ; 
Staking  their  lives,  and  their  young,  and  wives, 

on  the  road  up  Fortune's  hill. 

Whence    were    the    men    of    the    Old    Guard? 

Heroes  of  '82; 
From  swamp  and  ledge  and  ocean's  edge  they 

came  to  see  and  do, 
And  they  failed  at  first,  and  the  land  they  cursed, 

but  they  stayed  and  struggled  through. 

91 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Hope  of  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?    Little  but 

hope  was  theirs ; 
With  empty  hand  in  an  untried  land  they  clutched 

at  wheat  and  tares, 
And  home  at  night  by  the  wood-fire  light  was 

answer  to  their  prayers. 

Way  of  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?     What  of 

their  end  and  way? 
You   may    find    their   bones   by   the    lime-white 

stones  where  the  sun-dried  sleugh-holes  lay, 
For  the  Goddess  Trade  is  a  costly  jade,  and  they 

were  the  the  ones  to  pay. 

Joy  of  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?    The  joy  of 

the  brave  and  true ; 
With  joy  they  paced  where  Death  grimaced  and 

his  icy  vapors  blew, 
And  with  steady  tread  they  bore  their  dead  with 

the  faith  of  the  chosen  few. 

What  of  the  men  of  the  Old  Guard?    Ask  of  the 

arching  skies. 
The  grass  that  waves  on  their  leafy  graves  is 

lisping  their  lullabies, 
And   the   lives   they   spent   are   their  monument 

and  their  title  to  Paradise. 

92 


Sono;3  of  the  Prairie 


KID  McCANN 

Where  the  farthest  foothills  flatten  to  a  circle- 
sweeping  plain, 

And  the  cattle  lands  surrender  to  the  onward 
march  of  grain, 

Where  the  prairies  stretch  unbroken  to  the  cor- 
ners of  the  sky. 

And  the  foremost  wdieat  fields  rustle  in  the  warm 
winds  droning  by — 

There  a  crippled  cowboy  batches  in  the  haunts 
of  old-time  herds, 

And  the  balance  of  the  story  is  repeated  in  his 
words : 

So  you  never  heard  how  I  lost  my  leg  and  hobble 

now  on  a  crutch? 
So  far  as  the  story  relates  to  me  it  can't  concern 

you  much, 
For  it's  really  the  story  of  Kid  McCann  and  the 

price  that  a  girl  will  pay 
For  the  fellow  she  sets  her  fancy  on,  as  only  a 

woman  may ; 

93 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


It  isn't  every  girl  who  proves  her  faithfulness  in 

flames, 
But  fellows  who  listen  with  moistened  eyes  speak 

softly  of  other  names. 
Ned  McCann  owned  the  Double  Star  'way  back 

in  the  early  days ; 
He  had  come  out  here  with  a  sickly  wife  and  a 

kid  he  hoped  to  raise 
Where  the  climate  suited  the  feeble-lunged,  but 

life  was  scarce  at  its  brim. 
Till  a  little  mound  by  a  prarie  hill  held  half  of  the 

world  for  him  ; 
And  his  double  love  would  have  spoiled  the  child 

had  she  been  like  me  or  you, 
But  her  only  thought  was  for  her  dad  and  the 

mother  she  scarcely  knew. 

'Course,  she  was  bred  to  the  ranges,  and  before 

she  had  reached  her  teens 
She  could  straddle  a  nag  with  the  best  of  us  and 

ride  in  her  smock  and  jeans 
Till  we  all  caved  in,  and  she  thought  it  fun  to 

camp  with  tlie  round-up  bunch, 
And  she  shared  her  pillow  and  shared  our  sky  and 

shared  our  pipe  and  lunch, 

94 


.    Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  all  of  us  mad  in  love  with  her,  but  she  was 

only  a  kid, 
And  she  never  dreamt  what  our  feelings  were,  or 

the  love-struck  things  we  did. 

But  even  girls  grow  older,  and,  though  always 

kind  and  sweet, 
There  came  a  day  when  she  realized  that  we  were 

at  her  feet, 
But  I  had  never  spoken,  nor  anyone  in  the  camp. 
When  in  came  a  foreign  puncher,  a  thoroughbred 

black-leg  scamp. 
And  we  who  had  known  her  since  childhood  saw, 

in  our  unbelieving  eyes. 
This  wily  sinner  setting  himself  to  carry  off  the 

prize. 

Of  course  it  couldn't  be  stood  for,  and  little  as  I 

might  like, 
It  fell  to  my  lot  to  intimate  to  him  it  was  time  to 

hike. 
Which   I   did   in   straightforward  manner,   in    a 

way  to  be  understood. 
And  he  looked  at  me   with  a  sulky  scowl  that 

boded  none  of  us  good; 

95 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  he  did  as  he  was  ordered,  to  be  absent  before 

night, 
And  we  lost  his  form  in  the  shadowy  East  as  he 

cantered  out  of  sight. 

Next  day,  as  I  rode  on  my  cayuse,  apart  from  the 

rest  of  the  gang, 
I  felt  a  sudden  rip  in  my  leg  like  the  jab  of  a 

red-hot  tang; 
And  my  horse  went  down  below  me,  with  my 

leg  crushed  in  the  clay, 
And  over  me  leered  that  fiendish  face,  and  he 

grinned,  and  rode  away ; 
Rode  away  to  the  eastward, — I  saw  him  fade  in 

the  sky, 
And   crushed   and   pinned    from   hip   to    heel   I 

counted  the  hours  to  die. 

I  low  long  I  lay  I  could  never  tell,  for  the  hours 

were  days  to  me. 
Till    struck   with    sudden   terror    I   tore   at    my 

wounded  knee, 
For  the  east  wind  carried  a  smoky  smell,  and  I 

read  in  its  fiery  breath 
That    half-a-mile    of    sun-dried    grass    was    all 

between  me  and  death  ; 

96 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


With  my  hunting-knife  I  hacked  my  leg,  but  I 

couldn't  cut  the  bone, 
So  I  set  myself  as  best  I  could  to  face  my  fate 

alone. 
The  fire  came  on  like  a  hungry  fiend  on  the  wings 

of  the  rising  wind. 
And  I  wouldn't  care  to  tell  you  all  the  things 

that  were  in  my  mind  ; 
I  saw  the  sun  through  the  swirling  smoke  and 

the  blue  sky  far  above. 
And  I  bade  good-bye  to  the  things  of  earth  and 

the  dearer  hopes  of  love; 
And  I  figured  that  I  had  closed  accounts  for  life's 

uncertain  span, 
When  a  smoke-blind  broncho  galloped  up  and 

there  sat  Kid  McCann! 

There  wasn't  much  time  for  talking,  with  the 
death-roll  in  our  ears. 

But  we  sometimes  live  in  seconds  more  than  we 
could  in  a  thousand  of  years. 

And  before  I  could  guess  her  meaning  she  had 
thrown  herself  on  my  face. 

And  spread  her  leather  jacket,  which  her  warm 
hands  held  in  place ; 

I  felt  her  breath  in  my  nostrils  and  her  finger- 
tips in  my  hair, 

97 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


And  through  the  roar  of  the  burning  grass  I 
fancied  I  heard  a  prayer. 

'Twas  but  for  a  moment ;  the  flames  were  gone ; 

unharmed  they  had  passed  me  by; 
God  knows  why  the  useless  are  spared  to  live 

while  the  faithful  are  called  to  die, 
But  the   form  that  had  sheltered  me  shivered, 

and  seemed  to  shrivel  away, 
And  when  I  had  raised  it  clear  of  my   face  I 

looked  into  lifeless  clay.     .     .     . 
And  darkness  fell,  and  the  world  was  black,  and 

the  last  of  my  reason  fled, 
And  when  I  came  to  myself  again  I  was  back  at 

the  ranch,  in  bed. 

That  was  back  in  the  Eighties,  and  still  I  am 
living  here; 

I   built   this    shanty  on   the   spot;   her  grave   is 
lying  near ; 

And  when  at  nights  my  nostrils  sense  the  smoke- 
smell  in  the  air 

I  seem  to  feel  her  form  again,  and  hear  again 
her  prayer ; 

And   then   the    darkness   settles   down   and   wild 
night-creatures  cry, 

But  stars  come  out  in  heaven  and  there's  comfort 
in  the  sky. 

98 


Son.-ija  of  the  Prairie 


WHO  OWNS  THE  LAND? 

Who  owns  the  land? 

The   Duke   repHed, 
"I  own  the  land.     My  fathers  died 
In  winning  it  from  foreign  hands, 
They  paid  in  red  blood  for  their  lands ; 
Their  swarthy  villeins  bit  the  dust 
In   founding  the   Landowners'  Trust; 
And  many  generations  dead 
Substantiate  what  I  have  said, 
The  land  belongs  to  us  because 
We've  had  the  making  of  the  laws." 

Who  owns  the  land? 

The  Common  Man 
Said,  "Government  adopts  a  plan 
By  which  the  land  is  held  in  fee 
For  common  folks,  like  you  an'  me. 
The  man  who'd  alter  it's  a  crank; 
I  got  the  transfer — in  the  bank — 
I've  little  time  to  think  about 
These  theories  silly  fellows  shout, 
I  have  to  work  to  beat  the  band 
To  pay  the  mortgage  on  the  land." 

99 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


Who  owns  the  land? 

The  Stateman  said, 
"The  land  supplies  our  daily  bread, 
And  raises  wheat,  and  corn,  and  oats, 
And  simple  husbandmen — and  votes — 
The  land  was  won  at  awful  cost 
And  many  soldiers'  lives  were  lost. 
Too  bad !     They're  mostly  silly  boys 
Who  go  to  battle  for  the  noise. 
Here's  a  quotation  I  admire: 
'The  people's  voice  is  God's  desire,' 
And  as  I  rule  by  right  divine, 
I  half  suspect  the  land  is  mine," 

Who  owns  the  land? 

The   Farmer  said, 
"What  puts  that  question  in  yer   head? 
I  own  it.     Tuk  a  homestead  here 
An'  lived  on  it  fcr  twenty  year; 
I  bet  a  new  ten  dollar  bill 
That  T  could  hold  it  down  until 
I  got  the  patent,  an'  I  won ; 
The  land   is  mint',  as  sure's  a  gim. 
When  city  blokes  come  here  to  shoot, 
You  bet,  they  get  the  icy  boot! 

TOO 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  't  made  me  mighty  mad  when  that 
Danged  railway  come  across  the  flat 
An'  cut  my  homestead  pkimb  in  two, 
But  there  I  wuz — what  could  I  do? 
But  jest  set  down,  resigned  to  fate, 
Fer  fear  that  they'd  expropriate." 

Who  owns  the  land? 

The  Speculator 

Said,  "Land  is  just  an  incubator 

In  which  to  let  your  dollars  hatch 

And,  some  fine  morning — sell  the  batch." 

Who  owns  the  land? 

The  Indian  Chief 

Said,  "Ugh,  the  white  man  mucha  thief ! 
He  steal  my  Ian'  because  he's  strong 
(By  gar,  it  take  him  pretty  long). 
He  steal  my  Ian',  an'  call  it  law, 
He  turn  me  out,  me  an'  my  squaw ; 
He  let  us  die,  because  we  not 
Like  him,  can  live  in  one  same  spot; 
He  talk  so  much  of  civilize — 
He's  civil — sometimes — an'  he  lies  !" 

lOI 


Songs  of  the  Frairie 


Who  owns  the  land? 

The  Over-Rich 
Said,  "All  these  people  claim  to,  which 
Is  satisfactory  to  me, 
So  long  as  they  cannot  agree. 
Let  them  arrange  it  as  they  will 
As  long  as  some  one  pays  the  bill. 
The  present  plan  is,  surely,  fine; 
The  interest,  at  least,  is  mine." 

Who  owns  the  land? 

In  meek  surprise 
The  child  said,  "Like  the  air,  and  skies. 
And  running  water,  flowers,  and  birds. 
And  lullabies,  and  gentle  words. 
And  rosy  sunsets,  clouds,  and  storms, 
And  God  revealed  in  all  His  forms — 
'Tis  plain  the  land's  the  right  of  birth 
Of  every  creature  on  tb.e  earth: 
No  )iian  can  make  a  grain  of  sand; 
How  can  he  say  he  oztms  the  landf" 


1 02 


Sonj^s  of  the  Prairie 


A    RACE   FOR   LIFE 
(As  related  for  the  benefit  of  the  Nezv  Arrival.) 

Yes,  stranger,  I  hev  trailed  the  West 

Since  I  wuz  a  kid  on  a  bob-tailed  nag, 
I  hev  known  the  old  land  at  its  best, 

An'  packed  most  ev'ry  kind  of  jag; 
I  hev  rode  fer  life  frum  a  prairie  fire. 

An'  tramped  fer  life  through  a  snow  blockade ; 
I  hev  crumpled  "bad  men"  by  the  quire, 

But  only  once  hev  I  been  afraid. 

I  hev  lain  alone  while  the  red-men  crep' 

Aroun'  me  in  their  fightin'-paint ; 
I  have  soothed  the  widow  while  she  wep' 

Because  I'd  made  her  man  a  saint; 
I  hev  lassooed  lobsters  frum  the  East, 

Till  ev'ry  j'int  in  their  system  shook, 
An'  I'd  never  run  frum  man  or  beast 

Until  I  run  frum  a  chinook. 

The  chinook  had  his  lair  in  Crow's  Nest  Pass, 
An'  he  foraged  aroun'  the  Porcupine  Hills, 

Ikit  he'd  loafed  so  long  that  the  ranchin'  grass 
Had  a  wool-white  cover  frum  the  chills; 

103 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


An'  me,  like  a  chap  that  wuz  not  afraid 

Of  anything  with  hide  an'  hair, 
Went  out  in  a  sleigh  to  the  hills  an'  stayed 

Till  the  old  chinook  might  find  me  there. 

At  last,  when  I  thought  I  had  tempted  fate 

Enough  fer  a  man  with  a  past  like  mine, 
I  hitched  the  bronks  an'  struck  a  gait 

Along  the  slopes  of  the  Porcupine ; 
An'  the  day  wuz  as  cold  as  the  Polar  Sea, 

With  a  nip  as  keen  as  a  she- wolf  fang; 
But  frost  wuz  just  like  food  to  mc, 

An'  boldly  over  the  fields  I  sang: 

"/  am  the  man  frum  the  Hole  in  the  Hills, 

Where  the  Great  G.  Whiliken  capers  'round; 
I  am  the  gent  that  pays  the  bills 

When  they  plant  a  greenhorn  in  the  ground; 
I  am  the  Finish  of  folks  that  think 

They  can  run  a  bluff  on   the  prairie-bred, 
Fer  I  give  their  vitals  a  fatal  kink 

When  I  open  up  zi'ith  a  shozcer  of  lead." 

An'  the  cold  bit  into  my  nose  an'  chin, 
An'  drilled  itself  to  the  marrow-bone; 

My   face  wuz  drawn  in  a   fnizcn  grin, 

An'  my   fingers  rattled   like  lumps  of  stone; 

104 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


But  my  heart  wuz  as  brave  as  an  outlaw  stag, 
An'  I  laughed  though  the  frost  cut  like  a  knife ; 

Till  sudden  I  felt  the  hind  bob  drag, 
An'  I  kew  I  wuz  in  fer  a  race  fer  life. 

Out  from  his  lair  the  sly  chinook 

Had  hunted  me  with  his  fatal  breath; 
I  dared  not  turn  aroun'  to  look, 

Fer  to  strand  on  the  hillside  there  wuz  death ; 
The  hot  wind  sizzled  along  my  back, 

An'  the  sweat  stood  out  on  my  shoulder-blade, 
So  I  yelled  at  the  team  through  the  frozen  crack 

The   roll   of   the    tongue    in    my   mouth    had 
made — 

"Get  out  o'  here ;  by  the  Polar  Star, 

The  fiend  of  the  South  is  on  your  heels!" 
An'  I  felt  the  old  sleigh  cringe  an'  jar, 

An'  fer  once  I  prayed — fer  a  pair  o'  wheels; 
But  the  sleigh  stood  still  as  the  hind  bob  stuck 

In  mud  that  rolled  to  the  bolster-rail ; 
So  I  slipped  the  tongue  an'  cursed  my  luck 

As  I  straddled  a  bronk  an'  hit  the  trail. 

Well,  we  beat  it  out  by  half  a  neck. 

But  the  broncho's  tail  was  scorched  a  sight. 
An'  I  wuz  a  blistered,  parboiled  wreck, 

An'  nearly  dead  o'  heat  an'  fright; 

105 


Songs  of  the  Prairie 


An'  I  squatted  down  in  a  shady  spot 
An'  fanned  myself  with  a  wisp  o'  hay, 

An'  the  boys  on  the  lower  ranches  thought 
They  heard  a  voice  in  the  chinook  say  : 

"/  ant  the  dope  that  zcos  made  to  feed, 

To  fresh  down-Easters  just  come  out; 
They'll  sivalloiv  it  all  in  their  greenhorn  greed, 

An'  send  it  home,  beyond  a  doubt; 
I  am,  the  caricature  an   bluff 

That  is  part  of  the  play  of  the  Western 
men" — 
What's  that?     You  say  you've  had  enough? 

Well,  pass  it  on  to  your  neighbor,  then. 


1 06 


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